


Tied With Silken Ribbon (The Between White And Gray Mix)

by drew



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drew/pseuds/drew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's not so pure; Draco's not so reformed.</p><p>(original story "Tied With Silken Ribbon" by Starrysummer; no longer linkable)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied With Silken Ribbon (The Between White And Gray Mix)

> > _"Leg slips out from underneath the sheets;  
> With a sigh, I recall the night before."_
>>
>>> -ellipsis, "Glide"
>> 
>>   
> 

 

* * *

Control is a phenomenon Draco understands intimately. From the time he was two, he could make his mother do whatever he wanted her to, and when his first playmates -- pureblooded children of other Death Eaters -- arrived at Malfoy Manor, they were practically eating out of his hand like animals. The price for this, to Draco at least, was a perverse sort of obligation: those who can, bend others to their will. Those who cannot, well... _someone_ must be on the other end of the leash.

He rises from the bed, slowly, carefully, and runs his hands over his waist, fingering the purplish lines just above his hipbones, wincing just a bit as he feels these bruises react to the pressure of his fingertips. His head turns toward the wardrobe involuntarily, wondering... He opens the wardrobe's doors and sees his things piled on its floor, a tangle of cloth, leather, and metal, and begins to pick up the pieces, hanging some, stacking others neatly, putting yet others to the side. The long strip of silk gets coiled, rope-style, and placed carefully in a box in the dresser. It'll be a few nights before he can wear these again, so he closes the wardrobe and walks, naked, toward the kitchen, fingering his bruises yet again.

The water pouring into the kettle makes a metallic drumming and Draco finds his mind wandering to the previous night, the source of his bruises, and returning only when the overflowing kettle splashes in the sink. He shuts off the water and empties part of the kettle, setting it on the heat-resistant counter and looking around for his wand. He finds it in the bedroom, on the nightstand -- right where he'd left it -- and returns to the kitchen, boiling the water and steeping tea leaves in it until he feels enough caffeine has entered the liquid to make it worth drinking. A shot of milk from the spelled-cold section of the pantry and the tea is past his lips, hot and slightly bitter; enough to jolt him into the present.

Through the day he does what little needs to be done around the flat; laundry mostly, things that need to be cleaned from the previous night. When he picks up a pair of white lace knickers with a decidedly _off_-white stain on the front, his mind drifts back, and he fingers the waistband, lost in thought.

* * *

The knickers were not the first thing on -- no, that would never do. First was the corset, sage-green and silvery and oh-so-shiny, and it seemed Harry's new favorite pastime was pulling, pulling the long black silk through the eyelets on the back, pulling the sides of the corset around Draco's waist, pulling him slimmer and slimmer until there was hardly any _him_ there at all, at least around the middle. Breathing only in short sharp gasps, he managed to slide on the knickers, bulging where they shouldn't and with a back like floss up his arse, and the skirt, black leather only a third of the way down his white thighs, yet revealing the top of the underwear and a strip of skin between it and the corset. Harry's pulling is an exercise, as though by lacing him ever tighter, Harry can draw Draco's will from him and keep it in a little box somewhere; maybe on his dresser, where he would see it every morning and know what he owned in the world.

Draco traces the bruise marks, recalling the bite of the corset at his hips. He loves the tightness, the corset digging into his skin, bruising him where none can see. He relishes the shocked looks and the averted eyes of the Respectable People in Diagon Alley when he totters through, leaning on Harry for support and drawing murmurs from the crowd at Fortescue's or the Cauldron. His face spelled with makeup to be unrecognizeable, but still with a skirt-front that gives the impression of something not-quite-right, Draco is an attention-magnet, and he knows Harry loves attention, loves being able to make it look like he doesn't care about others or their opinions.

* * *

The path back to freedom is a long one, Draco knows, and he's been plotting it for oh so long now. Harry keeps him on a tight leash, metaphorically speaking, though Draco is sure he'd like a physical one to play with, teasingly, in front of him. A few weeks ago Draco had tried to flee, if only to throw Harry off-guard, but the leather laces of his spike-heeled boots, metal in all the wrong places for actual _walking_, had bitten his toes and calves and refused to let him move the way he wanted. Harry had insulted him in whispered lovey-dovey speech until Draco wanted to slice Harry's tongue from his mouth, but still he kept silent, eyes darting between shocked passers-by who'd probably seen too much between his legs. For fun, sometimes, he'll pretend to faint from shortness of breath when they return home, though he's long since learned to breathe in the overly restrictive corset, and Harry will pick him up and carry him into the flat like a love object, setting his pretty thing on the bed. Soon thereafter the boots come off and Draco's power waxes.

* * *

Sex with Harry would be almost mundane, but for the accoutrements -- Draco's attire drives Harry into that little part of his brain reserved for incoherency; the vision Draco becomes in satin and leather causing Harry's prick to harden and his breath to quicken, and Draco is drunk on Harry's attention, his eyes glassy and pale face flushing under the makeup. Laying on the sheets, legs finally free of their captivity, Draco's eyes invite Harry to him and in seconds his hands are there, sliding the skirt up those crucial few inches and fingering aside the front of the lace knickers. His fingers trace lightly over Draco's cock, touching softly, so softly, and the response is immediate, flesh jutting forward obscenely from under the short leather skirt. When Harry's mouth engulfs his prick, Draco lifts his hips the little he can and slides himself in and out, Harry's tongue moving lazily around his cockhead. A brief moment of terrifying involuntarity as he bucks into the orgasm, and then he's back in the bed, sliding out of Harry's mouth and stretching his back and thighs for what he knows is coming next.

Harry almost folds Draco in half, pulling his legs far up until they're over Harry's shoulders and the two men stare at one another for a moment until Harry leans in with a finger and presses against Draco's arse, splitting him once, twice, and then pulling back in a way reminiscent of the calm before a storm. But the storm is only a rainshower as Harry, vanilla to the last, comes within five or six strokes, his spent prick softening and pulling out as he rolls back and lower's Draco's legs. In silence the two of them undress, Harry slowly loosening the ribbon from the eyelets of the corset until Draco can handle the rest himself. While Harry turns away, Draco's eyes, half-lidded, never leave Harry.

* * *

The day Draco came to live with Harry was not, he reflected later, one of his better days. Magically tied, led in a line with other Death Eaters through the porticullis of Azkaban (which was, on reflection, simply for show -- a means to demoralize and break an already broken force), his robes scratched and frayed. This was hardly the Draco Malfoy with the jutting chin and perfect platinum hair who'd sneered at Harry Potter every day since the first of September in first year. On the off-chance that he might be spared, Draco had willingly stripped the arrogance from his person, inventing on the fly what a humble and beaten Draco might say, and flashed a look of what he hoped amounted to defeat. When Harry cockily told Fudge to turn Draco over to his custody, Draco knew he'd done it, and had saved his own life.

* * *

When Draco leaves, taking with him the garments but not the accursed boots, Harry spends the night sitting in the bed, staring at the note tied to the headboard by a familiar strip of silk. The imagined box on his dresser is suddenly empty.


End file.
